


Wrong in the mind

by GingerAndHyde



Category: The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde - Robert Louis Stevenson
Genre: And oh loook there goes Henry’s mental health too, Gen, Wanna see a friendship of literal decades fall apart in a matter of minutes?, because surprise surprise I’m venting again, specifically abuse through a medical institution, tw abuse mention, tw intrusive thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:53:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22760524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerAndHyde/pseuds/GingerAndHyde
Summary: A brief conversation leads to estrangement. There’s a reason some personal details are kept a secret.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 24





	Wrong in the mind

**Author's Note:**

> I was gonna write another chapter of A Disappearing Act? But this happened instead?? So now we have another oneshot??? Yeah.
> 
> So anyways here’s my version of the argument that led to the end of the friendship between Jekyll and Lanyon. It takes place ten years prior to the strange case, as in book canon
> 
> Jekyll’s about to have a v bad mental health day AND a real “Don’t You Just Wanna Go Apeshit” moment, because I don’t feel like being nice to him today. Also, more intrusive thought venting.

I had always enjoyed our little customs. Lanyon and I had stuck to the same schedule of meetings for years, always in touch and by each other’s side whenever possible. A particularly beloved practice of ours was Tuesday evenings- our nights. Saturdays were for large gatherings, draining social events that I loathed hosting and which always made me feel somewhat dead by their end, but Tuesdays were for us. And I thanked heaven that Lanyon always graciously played the host.

This Tuesday was somewhat more anticipated. For weeks I had been considering, weighing my chances, pondering whether or not I should share my latest pet project. The subject of my most recent obsession. My conclusion was a resounding yes. 

I traveled to Lanyon’s home with my brown leather journal under my arm. Nervously, I felt the ridges of the pages. No eyes but my own had ever seen its contents- it was time for them to come to light. 

_Time to display your personal demons, hm? He’ll loathe this_ ,  chirped an anxious thought. I attempted to swat it away- an easier task than usual, as my giddy anticipation occupied too much of my mind to allow the fears to take too deep of a root. They settled for merely buzzing about me like flies. 

Every incriminating, terrible thought I had had over the past two years made up the first half of these pages, the products of a mind gone rogue and my attempts to make sense of it. In the second half of the journal lay the solution. Potentially my greatest scientific contribution, and, with any luck, my personal salvation.

I kept the journal in my lap for the first hour of conversation as Lanyon and I ate and chatted, the sun sinking below the skyline and snuffing out the light shining through the study’s windows. It was only the two of us, a platter of pastries, and a sparking fire. The perfect setting for private discussion.

“You had mentioned a new project of yours,” Lanyon said amicably, stirring sugar into his dessert tea absentmindedly. “Anything you’re willing to share?”

I leaned forwards with a smile, pushing my own cup and saucer aside on the desk we had been using as a table. 

“To anyone else, I might say no- but I’ve actually been wanting to tell you for quite a while. I cannot wait to hear what you’ll think of it,” I said eagerly.

He leaned back in his chair calmly, peering out at me with a sparkling eye from beneath heavy brows. “Do tell.”

I took a deep breath and drummed my fingers on the cover of the journal in my lap. 

“I do believe I am on the verge of the best idea of my career,” I said, hardly able to contain my excitement. “I have had a revelation.”

“Enough with the vague hints!”, he laughed, swatting at the air breezily. “Go on, man!”

“Several months ago, a colleague informed me of a recent Danish theory,” I said, “which transfixed my imagination immediately. It proposes an intriguing idea: all emotions are merely byproducts of physiology. Similar theories are being passed around American circles, as well. I pondered the subject of potentially controlling emotions through the control of physiological responses lightly, at first, but this general idea, that the body affects the mind and the human experience, persistently presented itself to me in moments of silence. And then,” I said, pausing to breathe, “I had...Well, it may sound ridiculous, but an idea came to me in a dream.”

Lanyon chuckled. “And what did your dream say, dear amateur philosopher?”

“I dreamt that I saw a man- myself, but as though I was viewing a separate person entirely- drink a concoction and change into a different man. And I knew, although I was not experiencing this directly, that he was not only different in body, but also in mind. If emotions and feelings are merely how we perceive the events occurring within our bodies, why cannot the body be changed to change the mind?”

Lanyon frowned. 

“You are reading too deeply into the dream, my friend. You know that I subscribe to Freud’s theory; perhaps your dream was merely your repressed wishes for change-“

“No!”, I interrupted enthusiastically, before stumbling over myself for this violation. “I mean- no. I am sure that there was something more behind it.”

“Such as?”

“The change, of course! Were one to create a physical form more inclined to benevolent, peaceful feelings, with less capability for fear and rage, man could stand liberated from everything that plagued him. Fear and anger, the feelings that form the root of human evil, could be dismissed through an alteration in the body.”

Lanyon shook his head. “I’m sorry to say it, Jekyll, but it would never work. Perhaps subtle physiological changes are linked to emotion- and I say  subtle  and  perhaps  for a reason- but I doubt that those wicked emotions could ever truly be dispelled from humanity, even through the impossible act of a complete physical change.”

_ Never, never, never.  _ Taunting, it echoed through by head.

“Humor me. Suppose it could. If it were possible- you can not deny that the results would be grand,” I said, prodding my friend towards the light of this epiphany that he so stubbornly ignored. 

“Alright then,” Lanyon harrumphed, straightening up in his chair, “Let’s suppose you could induce a change to eliminate all these undesirable qualities. What then? Where do they go?”

“Ideally, the change would also bring about some separate consciousness, one made of the ‘undesirables’ as you so call them, that could then be buried, if necessary.”

“If necessary,” he repeated. “Why wouldn’t it be necessary?”

“Humans, in our flawed mortal condition, cannot ever truly be perfected. We wrestle with our evils every day; perhaps this is only natural. But would it not be easier to divide oneself from these natural wicked urges, rather than be bound to them in the same mind and form?”, I said as I pulled my chair closer to the desk.

Lanyon frowned, running a hand through his dark hair. A few rogue white strands surfaced, glinting in the light cast upon us by the merrily crackling fire.

“And you truly think that separation could help this?”, he asked, though it sounded somewhat more like a disdainful statement. 

“It could help all of us. All mankind! Those with wayward minds could find solace in a liberated consciousness, free from their shadows. Those sick of society’s charades could allow their moral scruples to stand separately from their own respectable selves.The darkness within each of us could be cleaved away into its own being, which could be eradicated if we so chose. All the solutions could be here!”

“You seem...deeply invested.”

“It is my one focus these days. I cannot stop thinking about it.” I ran my fingers nervously along the spine of the journal.

He paused, sipping his tea pensively. 

“Return to what you had said- something about ‘wayward minds’. Whatever did you mean?”, he mused.

“Those with illnesses or maladies of the mind. Delusions, manias, paranoias, intrusive thoughts, all connected to those undesirable feelings...”

“Many of those illnesses cannot be cured.”

_ Never, never, never! _

“Come now, Hastie- you’re a doctor as well, whatever happened to the dedication to easing the sufferings of your fellow man?”

“I am a surgeon, as you know full well,” he said indignantly, “I do not meddle with the body’s chemistry, as you do. I do desire to help mankind, but some things simply cannot be done.”

“You will never know if you do not try,” I said emphatically.

“An ill brain is an ill brain, Henry. Some sicknesses cannot be cured, and I fear that that includes those of the mental variety.”

_ It’s never going to go away; you’ll always have this, yes, you’ll never know peace, never, never, never- _

“I must hope otherwise,” I said, half to myself.

“What?”

I hesitated, suddenly feeling entirely too warm and enclosed. I swallowed. Truth had waited long enough. It was time.

“I must admit that there is more to this idea of mine than simple improvement of humanity as a whole. It is, if I am honest, far more personal than that,” I paused, glancing about to ensure that we were not being overheard by any trespassing servant. “I, too, have experienced an...anguish of the spirit. An illness of the brain, you might say.”

Lanyon’s brow furrowed.

“Whatever do you mean?”

My mouth felt full of lead.

_ Oh, how repulsed he’ll be! He’s never known, he would never even expect, no, not for his perfect Henry to be sick in the head... _

“I have an anxious disposition that tends to torment me, as I’m sure you’ve observed. What you do not know is the intensity it can carry. And that it has...a voice.”

“A voice?”

I cleared my throat.

“I experience thoughts that seem to be not my own. I know they are, of course, but they can be so disturbing, and frankly, horrific, that they can make waking hours nightmarish.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I began to document some of them several years ago in a journal of sorts- the same journal in which I have been writing about this latest idea of mine. I only take note of the repetitive ones. Some are persistent, I find, and refuse to leave my mind until they’ve ran their course.” I passed the journal to him. He leafed through it quietly, brown eyes flickering across the pages at an unsteady pace. Several moments of silence passed as his expression shifted into one of horror.

_ This is a mistake. _

“Why would you give me this?”, he whispered. “These are truly devilish, Jekyll...”

_ He hates you. _

“I know.”

“Have you not tried to dismiss them, somehow? Perhaps through calming your mind, or sleeping more-“

There it was. The comments I have heard a thousand times before, if I have heard them once. Never directed to myself, of course, but said by friends and acquaintances to and about nervously tempered wives, about their own minor complaints, and occasionally about people struggling with issues that no minor lifestyle changes could cure. A complete lack of understanding about what the troubled party is experiencing. Trivial, useless advice handed out to those who seem functional, while those who become inconveniences to those around them-

_ Are locked up in Bedlam. Or hidden away, prisoners within their own homes. Not a pretty sight, is it? And a very real threat to you, should you ever go their sorry way... _

“I have tried everything!,” I snarled, leaning forwards in my seat, digging my fingers into the arms of the chair in frustration. He started, concern darting across his face. “I have tried it all. Nothing works- laudanum calms me, but nothing else can bring any semblance of peace. Do you not understand?”

“I’m afraid that I do not.” He viewed me with confusion, finally faced with a riddle he could not solve. The firelight cast glancing shadows across his face, every line of his disturbed expression thrown into contrast.

_ He doesn’t understand, he doesn’t know what it’s like, his head doesn’t pull these tricks on him... _

“Let me ask you- how many hours of sleep have you lost because your brain has convinced you that, if you let your guard down, you will become deranged and tear out your own eyes?”, I said in a quiet, steely voice, rising to my feet.

“ _ What _ ?”

“Or! How many dinners have you left early, because you could not help but think of the sound the knives on the table would make if plunged into flesh?” My voice wobbled as I struggled to keep my composure. 

“Henry-“

“How many times have you thought of a sin so horrific that you felt the ground would open to swallow you where you stood? How many times have you feared that, should you release the breath you are holding, you will lunge at the next person you see on the street? How many? I want to know!” I was nearly shouting now, my face flushing. He would never understand. He never realized that the things he said about ill minds had been about me. And why should he? I had kept it hidden well enough. 

I was thoroughly sick of keeping it hidden now.

“Henry...you frighten me...”, Lanyon whispered, recoiled in his chair.

“Have you ever been inside of Bethlem Hospital?”, I asked, my voice dangerously low.

“What?”

“Have you?”

“...No. I don’t see why you’re-“

“I have. I have been inside on business- I was called in to treat an anemic hysterical woman who wasn’t responding to any other treatments. Do you know what they do to people in there, Lanyon?”, I asked, turning to pace the room.

“Well, I’ve heard of the cold baths, and-“, he stammered. I cut him off, approaching the desk again.

“Call it what it is. Torture. There was a man in there who had been chained to a wall for twelve years.  Twelve years,  Hastie!” I pressed my clenched fists into the desk. “I spoke to some of them. Just to try to understand what it was like in there- what we on the outside try to ignore. Some of them were so...broken. Shut away and forgotten because they had monsters in their head that no one could get out.”

“I don’t see why any of this is relevant to your project.”

“I fear I’ll end up like them someday!”, I choked. “These people were-  _ are _ , and continue to be- tortured and tormented by their own brains and the darkness that lurks within them. They suffer in private hells within Bedlam’s walls while society continues business as usual outside; continues painting itself to look pure and good and fine when the horrific and the monstrous hides just below the surface.” I pounded an open palm against the cover of the journal containing the transcriptions of the thoughts. “Exhibit A!”

“You’re not like them,” Lanyon said nervously, “You aren’t deranged...”

_ That could change, couldn’t it? _

“Tell me, Hastie-“ I whispered fiercely, “If I had handed you this journal under the guise that it was written by a patient, what would you say? Would you recommend a nice little stay in Bedlam for the poor, unhinged soul who put these thoughts to paper?”

He was silent.

“I thought so,” I said coldly. “If I am being completely honest, this project of mine is intended first and foremost for myself. I hope you now see why.” 

“It will never work, Henry,” he said quietly. “Complete physical alteration is- well, it’s impossible. I hate to crush your hopes.”

“They’re the only hopes I have!”, I snapped, whirling about to stare into the fire rather than allow him to see the anguish on my face. I dug my fingernails into the palms of my hand. 

_ He thinks you’re mad. Never should have shown him. This is why it’s best to keep quiet about these sort of things.  _

“You aren’t being rational,” he called. 

“Perhaps it’s time to give irrationality a try.”

A pause. No sounds except the crackling of the fire.

A chorus of  _ never, never, never  _ still ran circles through my head.

“If your project did work...Would you destroy the second consciousness? The undesirables?”

“It would be determined on a case-by-case basis.”

“I mean you, specifically.”

“I...am uncertain. I fear that they are as much a part of me as anything else. While I desire strongly to be separated from them, eliminating them entirely could bring about unforeseen consequences.”

“So this second self would be free to enact these nightmares?”, he asked with sudden severity, gesturing to the journal.

“I don’t know yet!”, I exclaimed, turning about to face him.

“How could you even consider allowing that to happen?”, he cried, “You have no idea what would occur! What it would do!”

“Were it to grow truly harmful- I could always get rid of it, somehow! Or simply stop taking the concoction that created it!”

“That would not undo damage already done!”, he thundered, rising out of his chair. 

“You forget that it wouldn’t be me. It wouldn’t even look like me. I would not be blamed.”

“You are only thinking of the consequences for yourself!”, he said, looking at me as though I was horrifically changed already. “You would honestly risk unleashing a monster onto the world in the name of making your own life easier to bear?”

“So now you’re calling me monstrous?”

“No! But this side of you, the undesirable hates and fears, combined with those horrid thoughts or whatever they are,  _would be_! ”

“You have no idea what it is like for me!”, I hissed, storming over to him. “You have no idea-“ 

“That does not excuse this risk,” he whispered, as we were now close enough to feel each other’s breath. His dark eyes flitted across my face.

Impulsively, I seized his coat by the lapels. I  _ never  _ do anything impulsively. 

“One day you’ll see that I’m right,” I said in barely a breath, holding him nearly close enough to hear his panicked heartbeat. “One day you’ll admit it. Either that or you’ll have to live with the knowledge that I am falling to pieces. You’ll keep smiling at me from across the room- only now, you’ll know what’s been in my head this entire time.” 

He froze, looking down at me with an expression like a deer that has just spotted a hunter. 

“Get out of my house,” he said flatly.

He swatted me aside, pacing away to put some distance between us.

“What?” 

“You heard what I said,” he ordered, staring me down with those abyssal eyes. “Get out of my house, Henry. It is clear that we cannot discuss this in a composed way. It’s best that you leave.”

I snatched the journal off of the desk with a huff. 

_ Thrown out like a dangerous animal, aren’t you? It’s a wonder he hasn’t called for a servant to send for Bethlem already. _

“You have no idea...no clue what you have just denied. So close-minded,” I muttered. “But I assure you: when I succeed, you will be the first to know. I will come to you to display my triumphs, and there will be no greater joy than hearing you say I was right.” I gesticulated wildly with the journal, brandishing it in the air. “And if I’m wrong- if it isn’t strong enough, if it’s too dangerous, hell, if it just doesn’t work- I’ll come crawling to your doorstep and you can laugh all you want!” I dissolved into a shaky chuckle involuntarily, my shoulders shaking, as I made my way towards the door.

“You’ve gone wrong somehow, Henry,” he whispered. “Please...take care of yourself.” 

“So I’ve got you worried for me  _ now _ , hm?,” I said with a cruel smile. “If you would do me the kindness of keeping this away from the gossip grapevine,” I said, tapping the cover of the journal, “That would be just grand. I have enough nightmares about Bedlam as it is; I have no need to live them out.”

Lanyon nodded, his mouth pressed in a thin line. He pointed to the door wordlessly. I met his gaze with the same resounding silence, but I could swear he... _flinched_ , as though struck, when he looked into my eyes.

_ Gone wrong. Somehow. _

I turned and walked out of the study- down the hall- and out the door. I did not look behind me.

**Author's Note:**

> ...yeah. A small note in that the intrusive thoughts Jekyll had listed are actually some of my own (special mention goes to the eyeball thing) because I am not at all subtle when I vent. However, I am lucky enough to be in the modern day, where I can afford effective meds. 
> 
> Neither party in that conversation was 100% correct, neither party said what they should have, but only one of them snapped like a toothpick and took a nice long drink of Hubris. 
> 
> The flinch is a call-forward to the way no one can look at Hyde without a shudder.
> 
> This whole thing could be avoided if only people understood brains back then.
> 
> (Also for any psych geeks out there, I hope y’all enjoyed the brief allusion to James-Lange theory, which Jekyll has just decided to abuse interpretation of and go completely nuts with, please can somebody put a baby leash on this man)
> 
> (Lastly, the ‘chained to a wall guy’ was real and ought to be remembered. His name was James William Norris and it’s rather anachronistic for me to place him here because he was institutionalized in Bedlam during the 1810s and this scene takes place in the early 1880s, but his case was one of the biggest examples of the cruelty that plagued the hospital’s history. If the dates are too bothersome, we can just say Jekyll heard about him through an anecdote. Norris was released from his restraints in 1814 after visits from no less than six MPs who had heard of his case. All visitors reported him as being coherent and clear in speech, and even the hospital did not provide a specific reason for his imprisonment. He died weeks later from what was likely pneumonia or TB. His story was one of the first to stir public concern for the treatment of the mentally ill.)
> 
> If I’ve offended, upset, or triggered anyone, please let me know. This was a kind of heavy thing, and it may have been upsetting. Never be afraid to tell me if I’m writing something that disturbs or upsets you, or even just comes across as insensitive. I am more than open to criticism, and I know my writing is not perfect. 
> 
> Sorry for these ridiculously long notes!!


End file.
